3. Enzo
Lauren approaches me alone, her expression neutral, though I can tell she’s not bringing me the answer I wanted.
“Sorry, but she’s already occupied. Is there anyone else you’d like to request?”
Damn it. I exhale quietly, controlling the flicker of frustration that rises. “No, but thank you. Can you bring our tab?”
Lauren gives a small nod before turning to print our check.
“We’re leaving already?” Lars asks, peeling his attention away from the blonde grinding on his lap just long enough to register my words.
“We’ll be back tomorrow,” I say, my gaze flicking to the blonde, who looks less than thrilled. I offer her an appeasing smile.
The dancer leans back against Lars’s chest, and he leans forward, whispering something in her ear, eyes drifting down.
Most likely a promise to spend more money tomorrow, or if he’s bold enough tonight, giving her his hotel room number.
Either way, the coy smile she flashes tells me she’s willing to entertain it.
Lars loves women, but remains an equal opportunity individual when it comes to hook ups.
He always has, relishing in attention from either sex, just as much as he thrives on their validation.
He’s the charmer, the one with a line ready for anyone who’ll listen.
It’s his nature, and more than that, it’s his luxury.
He doesn’t carry the weight I do, the unrelenting scrutiny from everyone in the Syndicate.
They’re watching me constantly, judging my every move, and lately, their questions have started carrying a sharper edge.
“When are you settling down?” and “It’s time to think about an heir.
” The older men in the organization ask the questions with the same tone they’d use to ask about the next shipment, as if my personal life is just another piece of the business.
Lauren returns, placing a silver tray on the table with our receipt. My black AMEX sits beside it, heavy in its presence.
She hands me a small card. “If you come back, just show this at the door. There won’t be a cover, and I’ll host you here again.”
I slip the card into my pocket. “Thank you, Lauren. Sounds perfect. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
She nods. “Have a great night.”
I offer her a small smile, then sign the slip of paper in the tray. I take a few twenties from the stack on the table, leaving them as a tip before leaning back in my chair to wait for Lars.
Beside me, Lars is taking his time. He hands his phone to the blonde, and she types something in, the edges of her mouth curving into an eager smile.
“I’ll see you tomorrow—” Lars glances down at the phone. “Charlotte.”
Charlotte stands, her tiny dress dangling from her hand and a wad of cash clenched in the other. “Thank you, Carl. I’ll be counting the hours until I see you again.”
Carl. Of course. I smother a snort, biting the inside of my cheek as she sashays away. I’ve seen this game play out a thousand times. She won’t be counting the hours, just the cash she stuffed in her bag, but that’s the way it works.
Lars pulls on his suit jacket, buttoning it with one hand while straightening his tie with the other. “Why can’t I meet a girl like her outside of a place like this?”
I don’t even glance at him as I slide my chair back. “Because you never leave places like this long enough to find one.”
His laugh is sharp, though it fades when Charlotte’s out of sight. He turns his full attention to me, his blue eyes narrowing just a fraction.
“You’re one to talk,” he counters. “When was the last time you had anything beyond a night of fucking with a woman?”
The black car pulls up to the Garrison Hotel, one of the few places in this city that meets my standards. If I’m not sleeping in my own bed, it better be somewhere with proper service and a mattress worth remembering.
The lobby is polished and tasteful with clean lines, soft lighting, the kind of place that whispers class. Lars falls in step beside me, looking as worn as I feel. Work may drain us both, but there’s no room for complaining in this business.
“I’m going to grab a drink at the bar,” I say. “You in?”
He shakes his head, loosening his tie as we approach the elevator bank. “Not tonight. I’ve got a call at nine about the Tuesday cargo, and I don’t need to be hungover for that.”
Fair. Lars knows when to focus, which is one of the reasons I keep him close. “Wake me after. We’ll grab some food.”
“Deal,” he says, giving me a slap on the shoulder. Then, with a smirk, “Don’t drink the place dry, boss.”
He steps into the elevator, leaving me to head for the bar. The space is low-key, tucked neatly off the lobby, with a solid wood bartop and just enough seating to fill the room without feeling crowded.
I take a stool at the far end, out of the way but with a good vantage point. The bartender approaches swiftly, a practiced smile in place. “What’ll it be, sir?”
“Port,” I say, offering nothing more.
He sets my drink down a moment later, deep crimson and viscous. I take a sip, letting the sweetness roll over my tongue. A quiet end to the night, a rare luxury in my world.
Lars calls me the uptight one, says I don’t let loose enough.
Maybe he’s right. But I carry the weight of an entire organization on my back, there’s no room for recklessness.
Every move I make is under a microscope, every decision judged.
And my mistakes don’t just waste time or risk products, they could risk lives.
The bar radiates softly with conversation, but I don’t pay much mind. Tonight’s business is over; tomorrow will bring more of it. For now, I let the warmth of the port settle into my chest.
Even in another city, my instincts don’t take a night off.
My eyes continuously scan the room, mapping every detail, every potential exit, every unfamiliar face.
Detroit might be miles from my own territory, but proximity doesn’t erase the risks.
It wouldn’t take much for someone in one of the local Syndicates to recognize me, start asking questions, or worse, assume the wrong things.
The port is good—rich, aged, worth every dollar—but it is nothing compared to the sight that just stepped into my line of vision.
Her.
The sight of her steals the air from my lungs. This isn’t the neon-lit version of her from the club, no pink sequins, no calculated flirtation for the crowd. This is her stripped of the performance, and somehow, she’s even more lethal.
That black dress doesn’t just fit her—it claims her.
Every seam follows the shape of her body as if tailored to my tastes alone.
The neckline plunges low enough to offer a hint of what I’ve already imagined far too many times in the past hour, the swell of her breasts rising and falling with each breath.
Her hips sway with precision, each step in those stilettos stretching her legs into something designed to ruin men.
And ruin is exactly what she could do.
I’ve built my life on control. On never letting desire dictate my decisions.
But watching her now, I can feel the leash straining, fraying at the edges.
I’m not a man who believes in chance encounters.
Everything has a purpose. Every meeting, a reason.
Seeing her here is no accident—it’s a shift in the current, a door swinging open.
And when opportunity looks at me with eyes like hers, I don’t hesitate. I take.
Her presence reshapes the room, turning the air heavier, the light sharper, as if she’s stepped out of a noir fantasy designed to test my restraint.
Every line of her body is exquisite, but it’s the way she carries herself that makes my chest tighten.
She’s beauty sharpened to a point, and I want every dangerous inch of her.
She glances toward the bar, her gaze sliding right past me without pause. My grip tightens on the stem of my glass, but I don’t move.
I let the moment stretch, watching her like a predator circling its prey.
Then, with a slight nod, I signal the bartender.
He knows better than to hesitate. As he sets a fresh glass in front of me, I lean forward.
“The woman in the black dress that just walked in—whatever she orders, put it on my tab.” A quick nod, and he’s already moving toward her.
I keep my gaze steady as she makes her way to a stool across the bar.
She moves with confidence, settling into the seat with a presence that draws every eye in the room.
In the club earlier, she had caught my attention, but seeing her here, in that dress, in the golden hue of light in the room, she’s absolutely breathtaking.
The bartender greets her, and I watch as she places her order, handing over her card.
He gestures over his shoulder, pointing in my direction. Her eyes follow his motion, locking onto mine.
For the briefest moment, it feels like everything else fades.
Those eyes are sharp, vibrant, and impossible to look away from.
My pulse skips, hell, it might have stopped altogether as she studies me.
Her brow furrows slightly, just enough to reveal a flicker of confusion, but then it vanishes, replaced by a flawless, practiced smile.
It’s perfect, but it’s also a mask. A smile I know she’s offered to countless men before me. A tool of her trade. And in that instant, a decision hardens in my mind like steel: I’m going to break through that mask.
I want to see what’s underneath.
I don’t just want her attention. I want her. Not the version she gives every other man who looks her way. I want the real smile she hasn’t given out in a while. The one that only the most fortunate men get to experience. And I’ll make damn sure I earn it before the night is over.